


The World Didn't End

by MistyInTheMoonlight (whitepolarbears)



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Cooking, Domestic, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, New Year's Eve, post-series 3, salads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-01 12:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17244119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitepolarbears/pseuds/MistyInTheMoonlight
Summary: Hardy and Miller spend New Year's Eve together at his house. Includessaladdinner and watching the countdown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year, guys.

'Ready to leave?' asked Miller, standing at the doorway of Hardy's office. 

Hardy grunted. 'Just a few more things to sign.'

Miller walked to the sofa and collapsed into it with a sigh. 

'Do you have plans for tomorrow?' she suddenly asked. 'It's New Year's Eve.'

'Don't think so, no.'

'Does Daisy?'

'No. We'll just be spending it at home. I think she wants to go to the beach for the countdown, though. Something her schoolmates are organising.'

Miller perked up. 'Oh, I think Tom's going to that as well! Why don't we all have dinner together or something? Then the two of them can head to the beach together? My dad's not around anyway, with that reunion he has with his friends.'

Hardy shifted a stack of papers away and placed his pen down. He removed his glasses and placed them in his shirt pocket, then settled back in his chair and looked at Miller.

'Sure.'

'Are you done then? Can we leave?'

Hardy grimaced and stood up, feeling for his phone and wallet. Miller extracted herself from the sofa and left his office. 

She picked up her bag from her desk and slung it across her shoulder. 'So do you want to come over with Daisy, then?' she called.

'Why not—,' began Hardy as he came around the desk and reached for his jacket. '—you bring your boys over to my house?'

She stopped in the doorway and her fingers froze over the strap of her bag. He shuffled into his coat and went on, ignoring her stupefied expression, 'It's nearer to the beach, anyway.'

Her eyes narrowed in scepticism. 'Am I supposed to bring the food over as well, then?'

'I can cook.' He reached over her shoulder and switched off the lights. 

'You mean you'll make salad for all of us?' Miller retorted, following him out.

'I am capable of preparing more than a salad, you know?'

'And yet, all you ever made for me was _salad_.'

'What are you trying to say? Do you want to bring food over?'

'I'm just saying that I don't really trust your meal preparation plans for New Year's Eve dinner.'

They reached his car and she continued to eye him dubiously from the passenger's side as he unlocked the doors. He shot her a look before getting in. 

'I know how to cook, alright?'

Miller said nothing as she fastened her seatbelt. 

Hardy sighed and started the engine. 'How about, we both cook?'

'What are you going to contribute? A salad? I might as well bring everything.' 

'No.' Hardy shifted in his seat to face her. 'As in, you come over and we'll cook together. Just bring the boys.'

'Oh.'

'That way, you can make sure I don't set fire to my kitchen,' he continued as he began to reverse out of the parking lot. 'And if it's bad I can blame you for ruining my cooking.'

She swatted his shoulder and he had to stifle a smile. 

'Fine, we'll do that,' said Miller, settling back in her seat. 'You can pick me up tomorrow afternoon to get the groceries, then we can go back to my place to ferry Tom and Fred over to your house.'

'Fine.'

  
-~-  


'What else do we need?' Hardy asked as he dropped a bag of carrots into the shopping trolley.

'Chicken,' said Miller, with one hand on the trolley as she eyed an array of raw chicken in the freezer. 

'Just pick one,' said Hardy.

'I'm trying to find a fresh one.'

'They're all dead.'

Miller selected a package and glared at him. 'The most freshly _butchered_ one, then.'

Hardy took the handle of the trolley from her and followed as she meandered towards a display of promotions. 

'Look,' she said. 'They have cheesecake puddings here. Should we get one?'

'Are puddings out of your culinary capabilities, then?'

'Why don't you take the time to make your own bloody pudding then,' shot Miller, choosing one from the stack. 

He couldn't resist it. 'Thought black pudding was only served with a full breakfast.'

Miller looked at him and paused for a moment, cogs turning. She finally rolled her eyes and walked towards the cashiers. 'God, you are insufferable. Remind me to never bring you to a supermarket again.'

  
-~-  


'Are they all sufficiently distracted?' asked Miller when Hardy walked into the kitchen.

'Glued to the telly,' he replied, pulling a bowl out from the cabinet above the sink and opening numerous packaged salad-vegetables. He rolled up his shirtsleeves.

'Your bloody salads,' muttered Miller, shaking her head as she vigorously chopped some herbs.

'What?' he questioned indignantly. 'They're healthy. Balanced diets are...important.'

'But you could steam them. Or cook them some other way.'

'Why don't you do it, then?' he grumbled, arranging a bed of lettuce. His eyes shot up. 'What are you doing?' 

'Setting the spaghetti to boil.'

'What, with a _cup_ of salt?'

'It's supposed to taste like the sea.'

'You mean the Dead Sea?'

'Oh god, don't be so bloody picky,' she muttered. 'More came out than I expected.'

'That's why you _scoop_ the salt out of the jar instead of picking up the whole bloody thing and dumping it into the pot—'

'Oh for heaven's sake just leave it!'

'There is a spoon inside the jar for a reason!'

'You won't even taste it in the pasta—'

'But I need the water for my sauce!' he argued. 'And now that it's completely saturated with salt, you'll taste it in the sauce because I've already salted the stupid thing—'

'And that's why you don't season the sauce until the last stage!' she shot back.

'I didn't expect you to go and use the whole jar! You only season at the end if you don't know how much the sauce is going to thicken but I already have all the quantities right—'

'You still aren't going to use the _entire_ pot of water! Two tablespoons aren't going to completely ruin the sauce—'

'Dad!'

They both stopped arguing and turned around to see Daisy standing in the doorway. 

'You're both being really loud,' said Daisy. 'We can hear you all the way from the living room with the telly on and the volume up.'

'Sorry Daize,' Hardy said apologetically. He shot Miller a look. 

Daisy left the kitchen and Miller nudged him sharply in his side with her elbow. 'Did you just give me a warning look?' she hissed. 

'You started it.'

'I di—you were the one who started arguing!'

'You were the one who used up all my salt!'

'Shut up, you're being loud.'

'I'm the loud one?' 

She smacked his upper arm with the oven glove and he flinched away, unsuccessfully attempting to dodge it. He was having more fun than he'd admit. 

She picked up the tray of chicken and potatoes and placed it in the oven.

'Well that'll take about forty minutes.' She looked over at his salad bowl—she analysed it then gave a small nod. 'Looks nice.'

'Thank you,' he said exaggeratedly and adjusted a leaf. 'Turned out quite nicely if I do say so myself.' 

He looked back at Miller in time to see her lips quirk up in amusement. 

He smiled to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

The dishes were piled in the sink and Miller was furiously scrubbing a plate. Hardy stood beside her holding the dishcloth.

'I'd say that my salad was a success.'

'Can you stop with the salad?'

'Not a leaf left.'

'It wasn't bad.'

'So you liked it?' Hardy suggested.

Miller glanced at him, her scrubbing not faltering. 'I said, it wasn't bad.'

'Fine, fine,' he gave in. 'I could wash and you dry if you'd like.'

'You've got to dry because you know where everything goes.'

'Right.' 

He thought she'd know by now, considering how often she came over to work on cases and potter around in the kitchen for tea and snacks. He felt disappointed at that, for a reason he couldn't quite determine. Perhaps she just preferred to wash.

He fiddled with the cloth and leaned his hip against the counter to face Miller. 'Wouldn't you say...that the seasoning for the salad was quite remarkable, though?'

'Hardy,' she warned. 'You do know that I have all the water, don't you?'

'You wouldn't dare.'

'Are you sure about that?' she challenged, her eyes sparkling dangerously.

Hardy met her stare and said nothing. Then she flicked her wet, soapy hand at him, spraying him with fine droplets of water and stray bits of foam. 

'Oh come on!' he groaned, brushing off the foam and picking at the wet specks that now dotted the front of his shirt.

'You asked for it,' she said and chuckled at his misery. 'The water stains might've been less obvious if you were wearing a T-shirt.'

'Criticising my fashion choices now, are we?' he commented while still absorbed in examining his shirt.

'You wore a suit to the supermarket.'

'What's wrong with that?'

'It's overly formal.'

He chose not to reply to that. Instead, they worked in sync to clear the dishes in a more or less companionable silence; he began to realise he had missed these sorts of domestic routines, but he didn't allow himself to imagine Ellie being a permanent part of it. It was a highly unlikely scenario with their undefinable, precarious relationship, but he allowed himself to enjoy the rare moments that felt so real he could almost believe it. In another life, perhaps.

By the time they were done, Tom and Daisy had left for the beach and they came into the living room to see Fred fast asleep on the sofa.

They stood and watched the little boy dozing peacefully for awhile.

'You could stay here for the night.' He almost regretted his words the instant they left his mouth, but not quite.

'What?' 

'I mean, wee Fred's already sleeping...and Daisy and Tom aren't going to come back immediately after the countdown. By the time they get here it'll be late and—I don't know. Just thought it might be convenient.'

There was a pause and he held his breath. 

'We live 10 minutes away,' Miller said carefully. 'I don't think staying would make much of a difference.'

'I know. I'm just offering.' He regretted the suggestion now; it seemed ridiculous.

'I suppose Fred does look quite comfortable,' she reasoned. 'Wouldn't really want to wake him. I'm sure Tom wouldn't mind roughing it out for the night but I don't really want to sleep in these clothes.'

'You have that emergency overnight bag in my car. And I have a spare toothbrush for Tom.'

He watched her consider it. 'I can set up the fold-out here for Tom and Fred. I'll take the sofa and you can sleep in my room.' 

'I can't possibly kick you out of your room. I can take the sofa.'

'I can't le—'

'I take the sofa or I'll go home.'

Hardy tried to stare her down but she didn't budge. 

'Fine,' he finally said.

They quietly set up the fold-out against the wall beside the dining table and Hardy carried the sleeping boy to it, placing him down gently and taking care not to wake him. He doubted Fred would even stir, however, since the boy managed to fall asleep with the telly still on in the background.

After changing into their pyjamas, they settled on the sofa beside each other—a respectable distance apart—and Hardy flipped the channel to the countdown in London. It was 15 minutes to midnight. 

'I texted Tom about the change of plans,' said Miller.

'Okay.'

'I'm starting to feel old,' said Miller, pulling her legs up. '11:45 on New Year's Eve and I'm in my pj's watching the telly.'

'You mean you used to dress up to go out and get hammered?'

'You make it sound so coarse. When I was younger I might've gone out with some friends and celebrated a bit...but you know what I mean. It's the atmosphere.' 

She fidgeted slightly and glanced at him. 'Being here with you and all.' Then her eyes darted back to the screen.

He knew what she meant. It was the sense of domesticity—the feeling of lazing on the sofa with a spouse, watching telly and waiting up for the kids. But that wasn't real. 

So he broke the silence. 

'Are you saying that I'm old?' he said, pretending to be offended. 

She grinned at him and lightly tapped his knee with her hand. 'But you are! You have reading glasses. That's the telltale sign of age.'

Hardy scoffed at that, refusing to look at her and instead returned his attention to the programme. 

He silently chastised himself for letting his imagination wander earlier. It was never a good idea to think about such things; he knew it would just make situations awkward for himself. He allowed the fleeting moments of familiarity, but it was hard to draw the line between wondering how life might be different, and becoming too immersed in an unreal world. 

He also had enough self-awareness to accept that he had feelings for her—he wouldn't lie to himself about that. He knew he'd never act on it, so what was the harm? 

'The salad dressing was good,' Miller said suddenly, snapping him out of his musings. 

He said nothing for a moment. 

'I don't actually really like salads,' he finally admitted.

'Shocking.'

'I started because of...' He trailed off. 'Because the thing—the heart. Medicine only did so much.'

'That's because you didn't want to do the operation.' She glanced at him. 'I still haven't forgiven you for sneaking off and sending me a text about that, by the way.'

'Sorry,' he said quietly. 'I didn't think it was important at the time.'

'You could have died.' 

There was a slight tremor in a voice. Barely audible, but he heard it. He sat there, unsure of what to say. 

'But I didn't,' he said uselessly.

'Bloody right you didn't. I would have killed you if you had.' She didn't look at him.

'Sorry,' he said again.

'You've already apologised,' she said with her eyes glued to the screen; he suspected she wasn't paying much attention to the programme.

'Right,' he said. 'Well I'm here now, anyway.'

'Good.'

He debated what to do for a few awkward beats, suddenly wanting to be nearer to her. He finally made up his mind and carefully shifted several inches closer. She didn't acknowledge the movement, but after a minute or two, she gently rested her head on his shoulder. 

He slowly leaned his head against hers, not daring to make any sudden movements. He wondered if she could tell the fluctuations in his heartbeat, or the fact that he was barely breathing.

The countdown blared on the screen, erupting into cheers as fireworks scattered the sky in London. He heard the clock chime behind him, and echoes of the celebration on the beach through the patio door that was left ajar.

'That's another year,' Ellie said softly.

'Mm.'

'Daisy's probably having her New Year's kiss,' she commented with a hint of cheekiness.

Hardy groaned. 'I don't want to think about it. They grow up so quickly.'

'I know.'

They took a moment to appreciate the fireworks display in a comfortable silence, save for the occasional murmur that seeped into the house of the rolling waves crashing on the cliffs, interspersed by distant laughter.

He knew what he wanted to do. He also knew that they didn't do that sort of thing; she wasn't his wife. 

_But if you can't try at New Year's, when can you?_

So for once, he consciously allowed his emotions to get the better of him. He swallowed and lifted his head. She looked up at the movement and met his gaze; he was fairly sure she knew of his intention. 

But she wasn't moving away, and she wasn't flinching. 

He drew nearer and paused. His eyes flicked down to her lips momentarily; she remained unwavering. 

He closed the gap and pressed his lips against hers ever so lightly. It was a moment of fleeting tenderness within reality. He ceased to hear the soft sounds of the television and the echoing cheers from the beach—all he could sense was her. Just her. 

He felt her return the pressure—just a moment that conveyed a lifetime. Then, like the retreat of the rolling waves, it faded away as they parted. 

He opened his eyes to look at her. 

'Happy New Year,' he murmured. 

She smiled. 

'Happy New Year.' 

Her head returned to his shoulder, this time relaxing into him with more familiarity. Their attention turned back to the screen. 

'You know that I'm not going to let you take the sofa, right?' said Hardy. 

'I'm not kicking you out of your room.' 

'I'm not going to move.' 

'Fine.' 

They remained that way until Tom and Daisy came home, and the night turned quiet. The dim glow of the television hovered in the peripherals of his awareness. 

'Just take my room, Miller,' said Hardy sleepily. 

'Mm,' she grunted, and he looked down to see her already half asleep with her eyes shut. 

He sighed and switched off the television, then cautiously attempted to extract himself from her. He was stopped by her hand tugging him back. 

'Stay,' she murmured. 

'I don't know if that's a good idea,' he whispered. 'Tom and Fred are here.' 

She squinted blearily over the sofa at the sleeping boys. 

'Tom sleeps like a log and so does Fred,' she said. 'We'll just get up before they do.' 

He hesitated for a moment, but eventually gave in and guided her down with him to lay on the pillow he had set out. He reached for the blanket and pulled it over the both of them. 

She lay with her back towards him, and he held her close with his arm snug around her middle and his cheek against her hair. He breathed in deeply, gazing absently at the obscure shadows on the walls and ceiling bathed in blue moonlight. He heard only the stillness of the house and the gentle steadiness of Ellie's breathing; he could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his body. 

'Goodnight, Ellie,' he whispered softly. His eyes drifted shut and he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to TheBetaWithNoName. 
> 
> Here's to a great year ahead, everyone.


End file.
